


abide by me

by cosmya



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Fake Marriage, Footnotes, Gen, Good Omens Big Bang, Illustrated, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, References to Depression, email
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22456471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmya/pseuds/cosmya
Summary: The year is 2001. Crowley runs a fake marriage website, and Aziraphale has encountered a... problem that requires his services. Naturally, they have No Idea that it's each other at first, but when Aziraphale proves a difficult client, Crowley takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 137
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang 2019 with the help of my incredible artists, [squashbee](https://squashbee.tumblr.com) and [crowleysnek](https://twitter.com/crowleysnek). Endless thanks to my [long-suffering beta](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com) as well!!

Crowley absentmindedly pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose.

_New Message, Tuesday 1:08am_

_To: AJ’s Happily Ever After Services_

_From: oysterlover41@aol.com_

_Subject: HELP. URGENT. NEED HELP. NOW._

His mouth twisted in a pitying sort of smile. He was used to desperate emails - one didn't employ a service like his unless they believed themselves to have no other option - but normally, his requests were less… dramatic.

He double-clicked on the email. 

_Dear AJ,_

_I am writing because I have no other choice. I have made a very terrible mistake. Even with my best efforts at making myself seem wicked and unlovable, I have been asked for my hand in marriage. I cannot possibly go through with this, though I resent breaking her heart. I now realize that doing such a thing is unavoidable, so I am caught between a rock and a hard place. My only saving grace is ensuring that I am not lying to her when I tell her I am in a happily committed marriage already. Please advise me on the quickest way to making this a reality. I look forward to your expert advice._

_Best,_

_Mr. Z._

Crowley blinked hard. It was getting late, and his computer screen always seemed too bright, which was not helped by the fact that the email’s font was swirly and ice-blue and very difficult to read on a white background. He knew he should probably get back to this poor man now, rather than waiting until morning, but his bed and its heavy black comforter were a siren call, and the dark office was cold and lonely.

Not that this was a new development. Even in late summer, Crowley always had a wool blanket (black, of course) draped across his desk chair and a pair of fluffy slippers under the wooden behemoth of a desk he had slyly acquired sometime around the sixteenth century, if his memory served. Lisa, as he affectionately called his da Vinci sketch, hung pensively behind him on the wall. The brand new, top-of-the-line 2001 iMac and the noisy keyboard his hands currently rested on certainly looked out of place, with its rather clunky fruit-like aesthetic and youthful curves, but Crowley appreciated the clear, green-tinted plastic that made up its rear end. He liked being able to see its guts; it made him feel less out-of-touch with post-Y2K society to pretend he understood how computers worked. Plus, it was festive.

He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He would send off the form he always had potential clients fill out, and nothing else. Name1 , age 2 , sexual preference 3, location4 and a choice of several wedding packages. 

1\. Alias.

2\. He understood that this was always lied about, but truthfully, they all seemed young to Crowley.

3\. He did civil unions, too. In fact, he was actually fairly instrumental in getting that little piece of legislation to pass a few years before it probably would have without divine intervention. It was the ideal job for a demon such as Crowley, because it was certainly objectionable to many a Christian, but by no means was it wrong or evil. So Downstairs was thrilled, and he could be satisfied that he’d actually done a service to mother England.

4\. Many of them were loath to give this information up, but it was a necessary evil.

For a twenty-pound note, he would mail them a signed marriage certificate and nothing else. On the other end of the spectrum, he would match new clients with current ones who sought the same thing, and they would meet up and discuss whether they could bear to be around each other for the duration of a wedding, and Crowley himself would plan the wedding, and officiate it, and for all intents and purposes, the pair would be married beyond any reasonable doubt, only without the pesky government involved.5

5 He had considered the possibility of the couple actually falling in love, but he tried not to think about that too much.

Generally, though, his requests fell somewhere in the middle. A marriage certificate, surely, but also some doctored photographs of the alleged couple’s engagement, blurry video of some generic well-wishers drunkenly swaying to the dulcet tones of _Dancing Queen_ at the wedding reception, souvenirs from the honeymoon locale. Artifacts of a life lived with another; the promise of a certain future.

From the sound of it, this _Z_ would want the deluxe package. Few World Wide Web users these days bothered to write out full words, let alone sentences, let alone grammatically-correct sentences. He seemed old-fashioned, and Crowley, well, he could appreciate that.

He copied and pasted the form and price ranges for each of his packages into a reply, lazily hit send, and dragged himself into bed. He was supposed to meet Aziraphale for their weekly tea at eleven the next morning, and the odds that he would make that appointment were lower than he liked to admit. He couldn’t really tell Aziraphale why he’d been up so late, either. This was a hobby, and he was allowed to have hobbies, but it was an embarrassing one, and he liked to keep it locked very tightly inside him, and even more so on his password protected6 computer. 

6\. The password, incidentally, was evi1ang3l666.

His eyelids drifted shut. Somewhere outside his window, the first songbird to wake for the day bleated softly.

* * *

Sometimes he thought about what the Crowley of two-thousand years ago would think if he could see him now (i.e. running a fake marriage website). But, well, he’d had to do _something_ to keep himself connected. These days, the world seemed as if it was tuned to a frequency he had long since grown deaf to. Even the horrors, of which there were many, felt distant. It was undeniable that he’d been in a bit of a rut for the past several decades. Time was beginning to move too quickly for him to keep up. His weekly tea with Aziraphale served as a useful clock, but watching the clock was never a very exciting pastime. He had a creeping sense hovering over his shoulder, nearly all the time now, that he was waiting for something. He did not know what, and he didn’t care to try and find out.

Hence, the hobbies. He had tried many such distractions. Gardening7 , well, that was an obvious one. But he had also attempted sculpture8 , salsa dancing9 , bridge10 , falconry 11 , tai chi 12, and virtually every class his local recreation center offered. They were all hopelessly boring. So he had broken down and bought himself the computer.

7\. His flat was full to the brim with the plants now, and he couldn’t bear to replace any of them.

8\. He didn’t like the feeling of clay under his fingernails.

9\. He didn’t like the way the old women he was paired up with told him to take off his sunglasses.

10\. He didn’t like being completely incapable of figuring out the blasted rules.

11\. The falcons liked him even less than he liked them.

12\. He was too wiggly.

It transpired that the Internet was precisely the depraved den of dishonesty and disconcent that the discerning demon needed. He could be anyone there, freed from the inescapable ties of the very term _demon_ and all of the baggage that came with it. 

He would rather not explain how he got there, but, as one does, he ended up in a place he never thought he would have. You see, one can impersonate anybody online. And Crowley, well, he decided to impersonate an ordained minister. 

It started out as an elaborate inside joke with himself13 . He was not going to use the powers bestowed upon him by the municipal court of Guildford, UK for evil, or probably even use them at all. He just liked to have the option. But there was one day, whilst browsing a forum for lovesick bachelors 14, that he got an idea for how he might use it.

13\. Obviously he wasn’t going to tell Aziraphale, who would not have been amused.

14\. Don’t blame him.

Apparently, there were poor saps out there that didn’t have the courage to let potential suitors down easy, or to tell their parents that they did not wish to marry, or any of the myriad problems one might think up that might be solved with a _fake_ marriage. Deceit through a distorted version of the truth, as Crowley saw it. And that sort of thing was right up his alley.

So, he had the idea. After a few hasty nights of learning HTML and figuring out how to use Paypal, he had the website. All he had to do was sit back and await the flood of desperate inquiries. He built it, and they came.

This was how Crowley ended up with a marriage-faking service. A successful one, at that. And one he never planned on telling anybody about, not even his closest friend.

On that note, Aziraphale seemed even more ruffled than usual on that dry Tuesday morning. He drank his tea especially quickly, and seemed like he had somewhere to be. That was silly. Their arrangement had reached an especially absent point as of late, and neither of them had bothered to meddle too much in human affairs in… oh, it must’ve been decades already. 

Crowley watched shrewdly as Aziraphale engulfed a ginger scone. He kept looking up towards the door.

“Waiting for someone?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale replied, slightly too forcefully. He refocused on Crowley. “You look tired.”

Crowley vaguely thought that Aziraphale was saying this to change the subject, because he was wearing his usual sunglasses and nothing else in the way he lounged on the prim tea shop chair was out of the ordinary. “You look testy.”

“Oh, you know me,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand like he was swatting a fly. “I always get like this when I haven’t performed enough miracles lately.”

Crowley didn’t believe him for a second. The miracle thing was probably true, but he didn’t think that Aziraphale had given up minor ones for the time being. “Get out there, then. Go… I don’t know, bless a baby or something. Whatever you used to always do.”

“Yes, yes…” he got up to leave. “You’re right. I really must go.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Go where?”

“That’s my business.”

Normally, he would’ve laughed, but this time it wouldn’t come out.. It seemed like they both had things to hide, and he wasn’t keen on revealing his own secrets, either. “Alright, then. Go about it.”

Aziraphale scurried out of the shop. Crowley was left to wonder what the angel could’ve possibly been getting up to, and whether it involved computers, too. He had probably composed one of those vile email chains where each person writes a compliment to whoever gets the email next and then sends it to their closest thirty friends. He wondered what Aziraphale would write about _him_ if an email like that came into his inbox. _The only friend who could bear to stand me for six thousand years._ That’s what Crowley’s would be in return, at least.

He was glad that Aziraphale always chose the tea shop closest to Crowley’s apartment. He sauntered back home a little faster than normal. He had an email account to check.

* * *

Mr. Z did want the deluxe package. 

Crowley drew the curtains closed, plunging the office into darkness, besides the blue-white glow of the computer monitor. He turned on the desk lamp with a snap of his fingers. He couldn’t explain why, but something in its soft golden glow was easier on his eyes than the sunshine intruding its way into London’s August.

He took out the crusty old moleskine he kept his _Happily Ever After_ notes in 15. Mr. Z claimed to be 41 years old and without a preference for the gender of his alleged future partner. This kept his options open, which was important if he was as fussy as he seemed, which was likely. Crowley flipped through his current client list. He knew just the person.

She was a middle-aged woman, divorced twice, who had since realized that marriage for love was not for her, and Crowley didn’t exactly understand why she still wanted the guise of it, but she had mentioned something about “tax reasons”16 . She had also seemed severe and businesslike in her curt emails with him. And she had the money for the kind of elaborate wedding Crowley thought was necessary 17.

15\. He wasn’t so with the times that he’d abandoned good old paper and pen note-taking completely.

16\. To be completely honest, Crowley didn’t actually understand taxes.

17\. Liked to plan, when he could.

But before all of that, there were the dates.

Crowley didn’t attend them, of course. He set them up and told the victims where to go, and gathered their feedback (individually, over email, to minimize awkwardness) afterwards, but he did not attend them. His clients’ anonymity meant little to him, but his _own_ did, and under no circumstances could he have anybody finding out about this odd hobby of his.

He drafted emails to each of them, and leaned back in his cushy leather chair, pleased with an afternoon well done. This was what his long life had come to. Once, he was fearsome, once, he was cunning. Now, he was lucky if he interacted more than once with the outside world a day.

He was trying, he reminded himself. It was hard, having seen it all a dozen times. The least he could do was try and affect the world in the largest of ways with the smallest amount of effort. 

This… wasn’t that, but it was better than sleeping all day.

* * *

_AJ,_

_I CANNOT believe you thought that MAN would be a suitable pairing for me. I thought I was clear with you. I need a partner to show off, not to sit at home with the kids. Do you even KNOW who I am? I am the PRESIDENT and CEO of United Worldwide Holdings (Holdings) and if I don’t have a husband to parade around the NUMEROUS galas and events I am invited to, NOBODY will take me seriously. NOBODY. Do you understand? Get me somebody SERIOUS. Not that sack of soft cheese._

_Disappointed,_

_Janice_

Before Crowley’s mood could be suitably affected by the rudeness, the phone rang. “Yes?” he drawled, expecting it to be the only person who ever called him.

He straightened up in his chair as if the person on the other end could see him. But it wasn’t Aziraphale. “I’d rather do this o’er the phone,” a man said shiftily, “because ye ne’er know who might be lookin’ at those e-mails.” There was a stabbiness in his voice when he emphasized the E in emails. It transpired that he was a new client. Worried, Crowley shifted his voice down half an octave into a very fake-sounding croak, took his information, and the man hung up without saying goodbye. 

Despite himself, Crowley felt his mouth creeping upwards into a smile. His reputation must’ve been spreading. Finally, a job he was good at.

He didn’t think it would be fair to match up Mr. Z with the new man, who had chosen to go by the code name (he had insisted that it was a “code name”, as if Crowley would’ve thought it was real) of Salem, at least at first. Z was going to be trouble, and it wouldn’t do for Crowley to unleash him on unsuspecting strangers too soon. He couldn’t deal with that many angry emails. Or telephone calls.

Janice, however, had sufficiently pissed him off on that blanched Tuesday afternoon, so she was getting this Salem.

He replied to each of them (over email to Salem, though it was not his preferred method of communication) and told them to meet at the local Italian place at seven the next day. He then began drafting a note to Z.

_Hello Mr. Z,_

_I am sorry to hear about your less-than-stellar experience with Client 134123_ _ 18 _ _. I would be happy to try and match you up with somebody more suitable. Please reply to this email with your updated preferences and I will get started straight away._

_Best,_

_AJ_

18.He was taking Janice’s word for it.

He sent it and closed his eyes, hoping that this would all be worth it in the end in the form of an elaborate and expensive wedding for him to plan. He could picture it already. An evening ceremony in a lush park, while the fireflies were coming out for the night, a tasteful contrast of black and white silks draping over delicate chairs and an ivy-covered wedding arch, and… he was getting carried away again, wasn’t he?

Crowley needed a distraction. This hobby was taking over too much of his life, and he hadn’t done anything conniving lately, and that was embarrassing. He needed to make up for all of the goodwill he was attempting to do. A surprise strike of the Underground workers seemed like a good place to start. He would get to work on that, and once he had done enough mischief for the day, then he could come back to all of this.

Z’s reply came through before he’d finished planning the strike. He ignored it.

* * *

Bad news gushed like a geyser, and good news trickled in like the dying vestiges of a stream in late summer. Crowley was trying very hard to focus on the latter when he was being drenched. At least there _was_ a latter.

Janice was unhappy, Salem was unhappy, Z was blindly happy to entertain whoever would give him the time of day, and _nobody_ was willing to do that. Crowley was losing his patience.

The one successful match he’d orchestrated lately was the only thing convincing him to keep going with this. Even so, he was one step away from giving up and calling his entire operation a lost cause. A failure, just like every other hobby he’d ever attempted. A fun distraction gone by the way of Crowley getting too serious about it.

But not all was lost, and Crowley would take what joy he could find. He had done something right, and DeliveryMan8323 was ecstatic. He was getting married, for real, and though it was an understated ceremony due to the modest salary of one in his profession, it was a _real_ marriage. Crowley suspected he never caught on to the fact that the service was for _sham_ marriages and thought him a garden-variety matchmaker. Crowley was not sure how he felt about his success in such a vocation. 

But, anyway, it was heartening to see somebody happy because of him. As much as it stung, literally, to admit it.

His other prospects were not going so well. Z’s passive reply was unhelpful. Crowley set him up on a string of dates, and none of them lasted more than an hour. He figured it was probably about time to give up. Tell this enormously insufferable man that he would just need to find help somewhere else, because Crowley couldn’t do it. It would take a miracle, and that was not something Crowley could do. Z would be disappointed, but that was something Crowley could live with. Didn’t he already do exactly that, six out of seven days a week?

He sighed. Could he _really_ live with that? Was that one day, that one chance to make somebody, anybody, a little happier because of him worth it?

Well… he was going to ignore that question for the time being. He had a different motivation. Couldn’t he be selfish? He was overwhelmingly curious how odd this Z must be to scare away a dozen desperate clients, most of which weren’t exactly the epitome of normality either. Yes. He would go with that.

_Dear Z,_

_I’d like to apologize for my inability to find a suitable partner for you. I know you must be very anxious._

_I have a proposition for you. Allow me, personally, to take you to dinner. At minimum, I can get a better understanding of you to better match you up_ _ 19 _ _. Otherwise… well, I’ve never been married, and it’s not as if I’m a stranger to fraud20_ _. Please reply with your earliest availability if you are interested. If not, I respect your desire to remain anonymous._

_Yours,_

_AJ_

19\. This, Crowley doubted.

20\. This, Crowley would regret.

The reply was immediate, almost suspiciously so. 

_Let’s meet at the Ritz tonight at eight. I’ll be the one in white, sitting alone. I’ll make the reservation._

No salutation and no signature. And no chance they would get a table without div- well, without _some_ kind of intervention. Crowley would humor him anyway. After all, what did he have to lose?

* * *

It was all Crowley could do to be fashionably late. Sometimes, he couldn't help but leave twenty minutes earlier than he needed to. Other times, it was a miracle for him to drag himself out of bed by the time his appointment rolled around. On this occasion, it was the former.

He fidgeted with his collar in the mirror. To anyone else, Crowley looked like he always did: black pants, black jacket, sunglasses so dark that one could stare into a solar eclipse unscathed21 . But _he_ knew that the clothes were nicer than usual. The type he left in the closet in a garment bag in case he ever had a reason to wear them. He hadn’t spent countless hours idling in bed in them. He wouldn’t dare to admit it, but he couldn’t help trying to make a good impression.

21\. Never mind that he could always do that.

He was, as always, grateful for the way the Bentley calmed his nerves. He left it directly outside the gilded glass doors and an underimpressed doorman visibly tried not to roll his eyes as he opened the door for Crowley. As expected, the place was packed to the brim. He surveyed the tables, absentmindedly telling the hostess that he was meeting someone.

But there was nobody dining alone; each and every seat was filled. Crowley crept towards the back, biting his lip.

As he drew closer, he saw a flash of white. He stopped and squinted.

But there was only one angel it could be.

Crowley practically sprinted to Aziraphale’s table. Indeed, it had one empty chair.

Aziraphale startled at the sight of him, but quickly shook himself of it and stood politely. He was rather pink in the cheeks.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” hissed Crowley. He couldn’t be watching over his shoulder to see if the angel was listening during his meeting. He could not bear the shame of Aziraphale finding out.

“Meeting somebody,” Aziraphale replied shiftily.

“Who?”

“Erm… I’d rather not say.”

“Why not?”

Aziraphale sat back down and began fiddling with his hands. He had already ordered wine and two glasses sat full and waiting on the table. “I’ve run into a problem and I was meeting someone who can help me. Is that a good enough answer for you? Why are _you_ here?” he asked accusingly.

Crowley put his hands on his hips but kept his voice down. He did not need to be causing a scene. “Wanted a drink.”

“Crowley, you _know_ you can’t lie to me.”

“Oh, but _you_ can to _me_?”

Aziraphale looked at him pityingly. “I didn’t lie.” He checked his tarnished pocket watch. “He, at least I think it’s a he, was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

Crowley got a creeping feeling. He looked around once more. Unless he was being stood up, there was only one possible client in that restaurant. He sat down slowly and put his head in his hands. Oh _no_. No. No.

“What’s wrong?”

Crowley could not bear to look up at him. “I think I know why you’re here.”

“I doubt it,” Aziraphale said dryly.

Crowley continued speaking to the tablecloth. “Have you been on a lot of unsuccessful dates lately?”

“Erm… possibly.” It sounded like Aziraphale was also speaking at an inanimate object, likely the ceiling.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley repeatedly counted the tines on his dinner fork as if expecting the number to be different each time, and also wondered if he should just stab himself with it before he had to admit anything further. He forced himself to glance up. The angel’s pink sheen had turned rather green. Better just get the words out, then.“I think I’m your appointment.”

Aziraphale paused. He took his glass of wine and drained the entire thing. He wiped his mouth. He immediately poured another glass, and drank that too. He sat for a moment.

Crowley rolled his eyes at him, but sat down defeatedly and joined him in drinking away the awkwardness. “I’m AJ, obviously. And you’re Z. This is embarrassing, Aziraphale. I can’t believe we didn’t figure that out.”

“Well, we obviously can’t...well, you know, with each _other_ ,” Aziraphale said with considerable effort.

“Nnn.” Well, at least Crowley didn’t say _no_ , exactly. He...wouldn’t have minded it, really, when he thought about it. He decided not to think about it in front of Aziraphale.

“Then. Er.”

“There’s got to be _someone_ else.”

“I… don’t think so.”

“Probably not.”

“So… you’ll help me? You’ll do it?” Aziraphale looked as though he was sure the answer would be no.

“‘Course I will. What are friends for, eh?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Do you want to explain how you got yourself into this situation, Aziraphale?”

The angel eyed the bottle of wine. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.” True, as they had just ordered appetizers, and frankly, Crowley wanted to see Aziraphale squirm. Just a little. 

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t think you’ll be surprised. In short, it was a miracle gone wrong.”

Crowley laughed1 hard enough to make the older gentleman seated at the neighboring table glance over to them, concerned. He was promptly ignored. “A miracle gone wrong. ‘Course.”

1\. Crowley’s laughter sounds like a hacking cough when he’s trying to hide something.

“I was just trying to help,” dismissed Aziraphale.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

Aziraphale played resolutely with the tablecloth. “She was grieving. Her husband had recently passed. You see, I was on a covert mission. It’s something I’ve been doing lately. Upstairs gets reports of humans that pass, you know. When I have time, I find their family members. Spend some time with them.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“To ease their pain. Nothing too big. Just… assure them that their loved ones are in a better place. It was going so well, too.”

“Was it.”

Aziraphale’s face fell as he prepared to get to the juicy bit. “One of them misunderstood my intentions. She became attached.”

Crowley saw where this was going. He still wanted Aziraphale to spit it out, no matter how embarrassing it was. 

Which, of course, was something the angel was not particularly good at. He fidgeted even more, but seeing that Crowley was not going to let him off easy, he cleared his throat. “I lied to her,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I wore an engagement ring around her. Told her I was taken.”

“You _what_ ?” In other words, Aziraphale had _lied?_ Couldn’t be. Angels didn’t lie. And if they did, it was out of terrible, soul-wrenching, pressing guilt… right?

But Aziraphale looked shifty, not sad. As if he were more concerned about his good reputation being sullied by something so sinful as a white lie than not hurting this poor woman. “I had to,” he said curtly.

“Why’s that?”

“She wants to marry me, Crowley. I can’t do that.”

“So what?”

“Marriage is a _sacrament_ , Crowley,” he whispered angrily. “Not one I can participate in. I’m not allowed. And it wouldn’t be... _right_ . The aftermath, I mean. She would expect… things.” He bit his lip like he was trying to fight off a blush, and then seemed to jump on a new train of thought. “My responsibility is to _all_ people. One person can’t upset that.”

Crowley thought on that for a few moments. He swallowed. “Alright. I’ll help you, then. Don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale replied, satisfaction breaking through his carefully constructed dam of calmness. “Thank you, Crowley. I know this is… unorthodox of me, but I really am desperate.” He took another large sip of wine as if to prove it. “Remind me to ask you why you do this in the first place. Later. I think that’s our food coming.”

Crowley lounged back in his chair and watched Aziraphale eat. _Oysters_ , of course.

* * *

The time was ripe for a plan. Crowley’s other clients had fallen by the wayside. He had sent apology emails, claiming that some horrible life event had happened and he couldn’t help with their marriages, as it was. It was probably for the best. They were all going so poorly lately2.

First, Crowley thought him and Aziraphale needed to try something covert. The angel had told him a little about the subject of his dilemma, who had not been named, so they’d taken to calling her The Woman, and her habits and favorite haunts. _Covert_ in this case meant finding where she was going to be and ensuring they were there, and very much looking like a couple, at the same time.

They had decided on the Starbucks in Hanover Square, her favorite coffee shop. A Saturday morning, early. When she liked to read a book3over her quad-shot vanilla latte. They would arrive first under the guise of sharing a coffee before a delightful morning date at the zoo. They would certainly not talk to her, and if she spotted them, they would leave, but say hello on the way out, but sorry, they really can’t talk right now.

Crowley stared at the innards of his closet, biting his cheek. He had been here for several minutes. Who was he trying to impress4?

2\. Janice: pissed off, likely to never speak to Crowley again. 

Salem: Giving up, citing worries over cybersecurity. 

DeliveryMan8323: Married, ecstatic.

3\. A romance, Crowley assumed, though he felt rather bad for assuming that. But what else would it be?

4\. Better question, why?

He threw on the same thing he always wore and headed out of the apartment. He turned the heat in the Bentley up higher than he normally did.

Aziraphale was already waiting patiently outside his bookshop, the normal bright white of his waistcoat and trousers turned orangey-pink from the streetlamps and the rising sun. He looked very nervous. Crowley could have made some mean joke when he opened the door for the angel, but figured Aziraphale was in a bad enough place already.

The drive, naturally, was silent.

And the Starbucks was fairly packed. Aziraphale ordered a small5 hot chocolate for himself and the largest black coffee they had for Crowley. They picked a table near the back.

5\. "Ahem, tall,” said Aziraphale to the barista. Crowley invented Starbucks size lingo.

“So…” drawled Crowley.

“I suppose we act normal until she gets here.” He began to take a sip, but stopped himself, thinking it was probably still too hot.

“And then what?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I don’t know.”

“We’ll have to do something.”

“Right.” His blush was fading, leaving him paler than the white to-go cup.

Crowley sensed something was off. Way off. “Why are you so afraid of her?”

“She’s… a lot. Intimidating. I mean. Just a generally Unpleasant Person. I didn’t know what I was signing up for.” He was beginning to ramble. “She wasn’t even upset about her husband’s death. Maybe they were on the brink of divorce, I don’t know. She barely seemed perturbed. She was much more interested in me. _Physically._ ”

“Couldn’t imagine why,” Crowley remarked semi-sarcastically.

“Don’t, Crowley.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you- oh, _damn_ it, there she is-”

Crowley looked up at the door. In walked a small woman with flaming-red hair and an expression that indicated she’d found nothing but victory in all her life’s endeavors. She was… a lot. After a single glance, Crowley understood why one might be afraid of her.

Aziraphale looked back at him, panicked. “Do… something…” he hissed in Crowley’s general direction. Crowley twitched. That was supposed to be _his_ thing.

The woman ordered her drink and began walking towards the leather armchairs by them. Crowley put down his coffee6, trembling, and slid his hands across the table. Aziraphale looked him in the eye. It was a cautious look, one of mixed acceptance and mild aversion, but took Crowley’s hands anyway. They were warm like a fireplace in the chilly Starbucks.

6\. Nearly dropped it, actually.

Once the woman was in earshot, Crowley took his chance. “Well, _dear_ , I think we’d better go. Need to beat the lines.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale uttered. He looked rather frozen, but Crowley put on a stern look, and stood, pulling the angel up with him. He did not let go of his hand. He suddenly found that he didn’t want to.

As quickly as he could, he pulled Aziraphale out of the coffee shop. He didn’t want to risk talking to her. He was probably more afraid than Aziraphale at this point. But, to their mild surprise, she didn’t follow them out, so once they were outside, they could relax. It was a beautiful day, and everything seemed like it might start going passably well once more. 

“So…” Aziraphale said. “Would you actually like to go to the zoo? If you don’t have any plans today, of course,” he hastily added.

“Actually. Sure,” Crowley answered quickly. Aziraphale was well aware of how much Crowley liked the place. They had an extensive snake exhibit.

* * *

After it all, they ended up having a lovely date. Date? Crowley meant day7. The zoo was mysteriously, ineffably, empty, and Crowley had ample time to enjoy the company of the captive reptiles. When they left, it was a given that they would return to the bookshop together.

7\. Did he? What was a date, anyway? Nothing to get  _ defensive _ over. Or overthink. It’s just a word, okay?

“Wine?” Crowley asked once they were sitting comfortably on the poofy leather chairs they always did, bookcases looking down upon them protectively. He sculpted his face into an especially innocent expression.

Aziraphale jumped up. “Yes. I’ll get it.”

Crowley surveyed the dusty abode for the millionth time. It was a sweet, homey place, but he didn’t think he could live here. Would that opinion change under the loosening influence of alcohol? Was he _gone_ already, and just didn’t know it yet? And, most horribly, was he about to find out the depths and details of his inchoate emotions?

He shook himself out of that confusing place when he heard Aziraphale’s light footsteps on the wooden stairs leading up from the cellar. “I’ve got a nice 1894 for the night. Italian. What do you think?”

“Perfect.”

The bottle was uncorked and the glasses were poured. “Cheers,” said Aziraphale officially. “To friends helping friends get out of situations they shouldn’t have been in in the first place.”

“To friends,” Crowley agreed.

Thankfully, any awkwardness Crowley was emanating quickly dissipated. Inevitably, the conversation steered toward the only interesting thing happening to either of them lately.

“Will you tell me how you-” Aziraphale hiccuped; they had imbibed a few refills already, “-p-picked up this hobby?”

“Boredom. Tried everything else. Life’s been long, angel.”

“It’s only going to get longer,” Aziraphale quipped.

Crowley suddenly felt very honest. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t say that, Crowley.” He looked Crowley directly in the eyes. Not slightly off, like he was looking at his sunglasses, but as if they weren’t even there.

“Why not? Because I don’t have a choice?”

“Because you’re just going to make yourself feel worse. And I can’t bear to see you that way.”

Crowley had nothing to add to that, and decided that he would sit there in silence until Aziraphale told him to leave. The shop was opening soon; the angel couldn’t have a wine-drunk man sprawled out in the middle of the place, ruining the mood for the unwitting non-customers. But that was ridiculous. Aziraphale wouldn’t leave him in this state. 

“I appreciate you being honest with me. I really do.” Aziraphale chuckled sadly. “Just. Don’t tell me I’m not enough for you.”

Crowley felt a reservoir welling to life within him, and, annoyingly, in his eyes. “Sometimes I forget. Don’t know why. ‘N I wish I wouldn’t.”

Aziraphale’s smile returned. “I suppose I’ll have to try harder, then.”

“I welcome that.” Crowley took another gulp of wine. This was a lot.

“You really didn’t answer my question, though.” Clearly, he wanted to change the subject and get Crowley’s mind out of this threateningly dark place, but his tone was teasing, not accusatory.

“I did. Got bored.”

“You said that.”

“I did.”

Aziraphale paused, and Crowley wondered if he was trying to hide something, too. Some deeply-buried feelings, maybe; maybe even like the ones Crowley had. Before he had to think about that too much, though, Aziraphale spoke. “I think there’s still something you’re not telling me, dear friend.”

“Am I?”

“You could fill your days many other ways, Crowley.”

“Yeah…” he conceded, “but, I mean, what do you expect? This is a devious way to help people, innit? That’s what I’m all about, right?” He sighed.

“If you say so. I just never thought romance was your strong suit.”

“‘S not. They’re _fake_ , right?”

Aziraphale smirked knowingly.

“Fine,” Crowley said, defeated but in an odd way that suggested he was feeling something he wasn’t ready to put into words. “I like it, alright? Not just the deviance. It’s like… the control. The victory of a successful match. It’s selfish.”

“And the wedding planning aspect?” asked Aziraphale, straight-faced.

Crowley’s blush said enough. He was _organized_ , alright? And he liked the flowers.

* * *

The next few weeks of their alleged engagement passed oddly. They planned out specific times to come across The Woman, and those moments went very fast, like they couldn’t possibly figure out the safest way to tread around her quickly enough, so they rushed about in a frenzy, trying to hit every spot she might be so that this endeavor would not be wasted. But when the time came to see her, it went slower than molasses . They left the “acting like a couple” thing to when it needed to happen. Well, Aziraphale did. Crowley couldn’t help it if his gaze lingered in ways it didn’t used to.

In the meantime, the website went mostly untouched. Not because Crowley didn’t miss his hobby, but because he was busy internally planning his own wedding.

It would be small, of course. They didn’t have many friends to invite, and they couldn’t anyway, because he didn’t want to answer the questions it would inevitably bring up. Not a courthouse wedding, but something simple. An elopement at home. Beautiful, but theirs alone.

The flowers would be peonies and hydrangeas. The cake would be lemon rosewater, Aziraphale’s favorite. Crowley wasn’t going to budge on walking down the aisle to Queen, though8.

8\. It was altogether unsurprising to Crowley that he was picturing himself the bride, but he could not altogether admit why.

It hadn’t taken long to plan, it was so simple, but he lost a lot of time dreaming about it anyway.

So the website had fallen to the wayside. It was probably for the best. Since they couldn’t use up too many miracles finding The Woman and proving to her that they were, in fact, A Thing, they just had to go out a lot. So far, their dates had included:

-the fateful zoo day,

-no less than twelve strolls in the park, though these were practically normal,

-dancing at a goth club late at night, which Aziraphale hadn’t hated nearly as much as Crowley had expected him to,

-two cliché rides on the Eye, the second one because Aziraphale was positive he’d seen her but needed to make sure she’d seen them too,

-and, most memorably, a short trip down to the seaside to watch the waves and get out of London and recharge what Crowley didn’t know had been near-dead inside him.

He reminisced on that almost as much as he daydreamt about the ceremony. Their jaunt to the sea had been a last-minute thing. Aziraphale had caught wind that his fiery-haired fiend was taking a trip down south, and he didn’t know what town she was visiting, so they’d picked one that sounded quiet and booked a weekend.

It flashed in Crowley’s memory like sunlight on waves. They’d gotten a cottage, a tiny little whitewashed thing up on the cliff, with steep sandy stairs leading down to the beach, where they collected seashells and Crowley waded, ankle-deep, black jeans bunched up but wet with seawater all the same,while Aziraphale smiled at him from the shore. The weather was perfect all weekend. Sunny, but not hot, and chilly enough at night that when they sat on the terrace overlooking the ocean, drinking oversaturated cocoa that Aziraphale had struggled to make from scratch, they needed to wrap tartan throws over themselves. Crowley didn’t even complain about the cottage’s choice of blanket selection, which, looking back, Aziraphale had probably tampered with.

Sunday night came quickly; they often said very little during these evenings, but tonight they were like ghosts in the peaceful place. Crowley enjoyed the silence and the company, but it gave him a lot of time to think, and thinking was a dangerous thing.

“Aziraphale,” he said moodily. “Are you… actually alright with all of this?”

“Of course. I asked for it, didn’t I?” Unshakably bright, as always. He didn’t look at Crowley. The sun was setting, and that was the more spectacular sight.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, if you were to go back and do this again, would you?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Why did he have to be so frustrating? “Okay. Never mind.”

“No, not... ‘never mind’,” Aziraphale argued, finally turning to look at Crowley. His wonder had shifted to slight concern. “Are you not? _Okay_ with this, I mean.”

Crowley grimaced. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blushed. “I’m really sorry, then. I… if this makes you uncomfortable… we can find something else…”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” Crowley said quickly. “I mean I am okay with it. I’m… glad, if anything.”

“Why?”

“Had to get married someday, I guess.” He tried very hard to sound joking.

“Well… no, not exactly.”

“Why did I even bring this up?”

Aziraphale waited for him to continue; he must’ve seen the way Crowley’s lips were parted, trying to form words.

“I suppose what I’m trying to say is…” Crowley swallowed. “I don’t… I don’t mind. It’s no different, is it? We’re just formalizing our friendship. That ought to be just as meaningful, don’t you think?” He didn’t know what _he_ thought. Was this friendship, this thing he wanted? What did friendship really mean when one doesn’t really have a choice to be friends in the first place? Aziraphale was all he had, wasn’t he? Was that friendship, or dependence?

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Aziraphale looked back at the sunset. It was nearly over; the ocean practically glowed from the inside out.

Aziraphale deserved to know, Crowley decided. “I know this isn’t a real wedding, but it means a lot to me.”

“And me.”

Crowley was feeling a little drunk on the cocoa and a little hurt that Aziraphale wasn’t being more… whatever Crowley was right now. “Do you want to set a date?”

“Did we not do that already?”

“No. But I think we should do it next week. No use in waiting any longer.”

“Next week, then. And Crowley?”

Crowley looked up, hopeful.

“We should send her a handwritten note if we won’t be inviting her. To say sorry. I hope you understand.”

The sun left the cottage fully in darkness; it hid Crowley’s dejected face and silent sigh. “I understand.”

That was it. They packed up the next day to head back to London, where the weather was to be cloudy and not cold enough for a proper jacket, but not warm enough to suggest that summer hadn’t left them yet. Crowley had left all of the seashells he’d collected, and the cottage cleaner than it was when they’d arrived. Despite himself, he felt like some part of himself had been renewed. He had needed that.

* * *

Crowley poured himself furiously into the wedding planning after they returned to London. He tried to pretend that it was just another wedding, and not a legally binding profession of love on his part like it actually was, but somehow, that did little to quell his anxiety. Unsurprisingly, nothing actually helped, seeing as it felt more like he was planning his own funeral9 than anything else. 

The problem was that he could no longer avoid the problem. This _did_ actually mean something to him. It was not a way to pass the time, nor something he was doing to piss off Upstairs, though they certainly would be pissed off if they found out. It was real, and he really was in love with Aziraphale and his funny outfits and kindness and insistence on decorum and that faint hint of deviousness that sometimes came out when Crowley was lucky. It was probably a _mad_ amount of love, unless love always felt like madness. Crowley wouldn’t know that either. Because it should not be possible in the first place for a demon to love. 

The details of the wedding changed rapidly, from intimate backyard affair with only a few select humans, to a grand ballroom, five-hundred guest reception sort of thing, to saying off with it all, Aziraphale, let’s elope in Paris and who cares what that woman thinks, she can tell Upstairs if she wants, because if we’re going to be Lectured or even Punished, at least it’ll be together. These ideas cycled through Crowley’s mind fast enough to make him dizzy.

But the details always centered in on the same general goal. When Crowley finalized the color scheme (cream and emerald), when he thought about the exact flavor, size, and decoration style for the cake, when he chose a black tuxedo tight enough so that he could barely breathe to be married10 in, it was all based on what Aziraphale would like most.

9\. Not that he knew what that was like either. Crowley had never attended a funeral.

10\. Did he say  _ married? _ He meant _ buried _. 

And when the phone rang one gloomy afternoon, with three days left until his own personal apocalypse, and it was the angel himself, and he was asking if he could come over, Crowley said _fine_ like a starving man offered a dinner at the Ritz. He forced himself not to stand by the door waiting. But he still heard Aziraphale’s soft knock from the furthest room in the flat.

The angel was laden with stationary and what appeared to be decades-old scrapbooking supplies and looked rather sheepish. Crowley invited him in just as sheepishly. 

“I thought I would help with the preparations,” Aziraphale said, a note of apology in his voice.

Crowley tried to keep it casual. “No need. I’m nearly done.”

“I feel bad, though. I’ve been absent and leaving you to do all of the work. I barely know what to expect this Friday. Is there any reason you’re being so-” He gestured somewhere towards the sky, maybe a little wildly.

“No, no, nothing. Come in.” Crowley turned and strode back into the sitting room, hoping nothing about his messy setup - the single flowers strewn about, the samples of ribbon draped over the couch arms, the record player quietly playing Pachabel’s Canon11 \- screamed ‘I love you, please kiss me right now’. “Sorry. There’s really nothing left to do,” he said stiffly.

11\. He was not proud of this one bit.

Aziraphale was standing even more formally than usual in between stacks of catering menus. “I’m sure there’s something I can help with.”

“Nope. Remember, this is my job.”

“It’s just… You haven’t said much about any of it. I was getting rather worried. Do you not want to-”

“It’s fine. You know me.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him, but Crowley forced himself to smile. The sight of the angel, so ready to help and contribute, sent him spiraling in the opposite direction, away from what he wanted and towards what would be safest. “It’s because I’ve changed my mind. I know it seems like I wanted something grandiose, but… what’s the point?”

Aziraphale looked less let down than he was expecting.

Crowley continued, looking over to one of his plants, a large and rather weepy-looking one, for strength in this difficult time. “We’ll meet at the courthouse at noon. I’ll perform a little demonic miracle in the form of a parking ticket on the ginger woman’s car. She’ll have to walk past the marriage license office, and that will be that.”

The silence in the flat was sickening. Then, finally, “That sounds lovely. I’ll see you then. In the meantime, do you want… help cleaning up?”

“No.”

Aziraphale left, and Crowley stuffed it all down the garbage chute.

* * *

Friday was another dreary, drizzly day. Crowley woke and considered whether there were any wells between his flat and the courthouse that he could throw himself down. And then he remembered that this was 2001, most people didn’t use wells anymore, and anyway, it’s not like the fall would kill him. He would have to climb back up and explain to Aziraphale where he’d got all the bruises from and why he was drenched. Seeing as all he did lately was make Aziraphale think he hated him, this would be a dreadfully bad idea.

It was very difficult to get out of bed. His dreams had been a constant cycle of one pivotal moment: _you may kiss the bride._ They had not been nightmares, either. Not a horrifying, fight-or-flight, need to escape dream, but a true _fantasy_ , a place he wanted to stay in forever. This was _very bad_ _ 12 _.

12\. Also very bad was when Crowley thought about the fact that Aziraphale didn’t sleep, and therefore couldn’t dream of all the things he would never dare think in his waking life.

Yet, somehow, when Crowley woke and thought of afterwards, of the consummation one expects on one’s wedding night, he backed quickly away and did not wish to think on it any more.

But the first part, the good part, would be made real very soon. And Aziraphale would _have_ to kiss him back, in front of people, that was the real problem. And Crowley would have to hold it together and not melt into a puddle of steaming red demon-goo on the moldy carpet of the courthouse. Would… would Aziraphale want any more after the first legally-mandated 13 one?

13\. Crowley knows it’s not actually legally-mandated, but Aziraphale might not, and he’s sure not going to say anything.

Crowley threw off the covers and dressed as quickly as possible. He chose to walk through the rain to the courthouse, hoping it would get out some of his soul-rending anxiety. It only succeeded in making his nice suit damp.

Aziraphale was waiting outside underneath a pale tartan umbrella. He was in a slightly sharper version of his regular getup; it might’ve been a purer white than the usual cream. His bowtie was also white, but if Crowley got very close, he suspected he would see a faint plaid pattern. He suddenly felt very self-conscious, and rather like a tart, for having chosen something so form-fitting.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale brightly.

“Ready to get this over with?”

This flippant statement garnered a sharp look. “I really wish you would stop acting like this is the end of the world for you. It’s unkind.”

“You know it’s not. Come on.” Crowley held the door open, but Aziraphale stayed rooted in place.

“Actually…” he began, the beginnings of a smile emerging. “Come with me. And trust me.”

Crowley was filled with a tumultuous mixture of fear and excitement. He raised an eyebrow. “Alright.”

Aziraphale led him down the rain-slicked streets, holding the umbrella steadily over both of their heads. They were silent as they walked, but all the better for it, because an indomitable buzzing had filled Crowley’s head, and if Aziraphale said anything, his response would be something along the lines of _Hnghh._ But the buzzing also meant that he was rendered completely incapable of thinking about what the Heck Aziraphale was doing, so it was probably a good thing, on the whole.

Soon enough, however, it was clear where they were going, and the familiar outlines of St. James’ Park came into focus. The sweeping trees, the lampposts trying to shine in the dim daylight, the way the raindrops, which had grown heavier and more frequent, hit the battered surface of the pond. The rain had driven out all the people, which was unusual for London, but appreciated all the same.

“Over here,” said Aziraphale. He gestured to one of the larger trees, which had strange spiderweb-like wires draped over it.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley started, like he was warning him, but against what? What could Aziraphale be doing that Crowley wouldn’t want with all of his heart? 

“Just a moment, dear.” Aziraphale shook off his umbrella and closed it, setting it against the tree. Its dense leaves provided enough shelter from the sky. He then puttered around to the other side and connected both ends of a large plug14. The tree, and several more around them, burst into light.

14\. Later, Aziraphale would admit that he paid somebody to put up the lights and used a plug rather than doing his whole  _ let there be light _ thing. He didn’t want to attract suspicion by performing too many miracles, you see. Though he did do one tiny one to prevent every duck in St. James’ Park from being electrocuted.

“Alright. I think we’re ready.”

“Wait, wait,” interjected Crowley. “What’s going on, angel?”

Aziraphale looked as if he was trying not to seem hurt, but Crowley soldiered on, not letting himself notice it.

“What on Earth is this? I… I… Don’t think I’m angry. I’m not angry.” He sounded angry. “I thought you were fine with the whole courthouse thing. Making it a quiet affair. Getting it out of the way so we can get on with our lives and get that woman off your back. But you had to go and…”

Aziraphale looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Give you what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered exasperatedly.

“You try to hide far too much from me, Crowley.”

An old Crowley would’ve found that this statement slid off him like water off a duck’s back. An even older Crowley would have spent several days in a stupor examining each word. This Crowley felt that he had turned to stone.

Aziraphale was the opposite; his conviction redoubled. “I know how you are. I know you don’t like to believe you can want things. But _I_ do. And this is my way of telling you that what we want is _the same_.” Without letting Crowley answer (though he probably couldn’t have, anyway) Aziraphale took him by the hand, gave him a determined look, and positioned Crowley firmly on the left of the foggily-lit tree trunk and took his spot on the right.

“Crowley, I-”

“Wait. Wait,” Crowley had regained the ability to speak. It was like being here, being in this place where so much had happened between them, had sent his memories floating, dazed, back to him, and he had remembered the very reason for all of this drama. “Shouldn’t we wait for that woman who wanted to marry you? Isn’t that the whole point?”

Aziraphale scrunched up his face, pained too much to hide it. “Oh,” he sighed. “Don’t bring that up.”

“W-why?”

The rain had slowed at this point, so Crowley could hear every errant sound and hesitation in his friend’s voice. Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “I suppose I’ve hidden too much from you too. Would you believe me…” he began, clearly summoning all of his courage, “if I told you that it was never about her?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Crowley plainly.

“Well, good,” said Aziraphale nervously. “Technically, I suppose it was about her, in the beginning. I really did think I was in danger. But it became clear very quickly that I had overreacted. She wasn’t a concern after all.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Aziraphale smiled apologetically. “I couldn’t. When we met at the Ritz, I realized. I had no idea, until I saw you so excited about this. And I saw how you tried to hide it from me. Six thousand years, and there was still so much I didn’t know about you.”

“And I you, apparently, in terms of your proclivity to lie.” Crowley knew his voice sounded rather accusatory, but Aziraphale was doing this very annoying thing where everything he said was making Crowley love him more.

The apologetic smile turned sly. “Do you blame me for it?” He didn’t wait for Crowley to answer. “I wanted to see more. So I let it play out.”

_You watched me fall in love with you?_ thought Crowley.

“And I saw how it strengthened us. I wouldn’t give that up for anything.” Aziraphale reached up and took Crowley’s sunglasses off. Crowley bent his head so they came off easy. He saw more clearly now that the rain wasn’t dappling everything.

“What does that mean, angel?” _Clarify it for me. Don’t let me wonder._

“What does that mean to you?” Aziraphale countered.

Crowley lost himself entirely, and took Aziraphale by the shoulder, and pulled him into a kiss. It was a moment of confusion - of diverging paths, of splitting connections - and, if the universe was just, they would have been punished for it, for acting as though they had free will and weren’t bound to what they _were,_ as though they didn’t have to abide by the damned Expectations of _angel_ and _demon_ , and Crowley would no longer have to live with his poisonous feelings, or perhaps even live at all, and-

Aziraphale pulled away. He was flushed red, his expression tight. 

“I-”

“Erm-”

Crowley felt as if the kiss had changed him. The wrongness he’d predicted settled in. No doubt Hastur and Ligur would jump out from behind the tree and drag him Downstairs for eternal imprisonment. But as soon as he had thought that, he knew it was wrong - that was not what he feared. The act hadn’t been wrong. _He_ had been wrong.

“Erm…” he repeated. “Can I change my mind?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, hushed. Crowley saw the lines of his face softening.

“I just wanted to…”

“To see.” He took Crowley’s hand. “I understand.”

“Did you know it would end this way? Did you see me falling?”

“You hid it very well,” Aziraphale lied. “Do you… do you really think this _is_ the end?”

Crowley’s hand that Aziraphale wasn’t holding still balled up into a fist. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said hurriedly. “I just thought that this was what I wanted. I thought that this would _be_ the end. ‘Course, I hoped you would feel the same way, and we’d… I don’t know, we’d be together, and…”

“Crowley. I do feel the same way. We are together, even if it’s not… like that. Please, never think otherwise.” 

“But-”

For once, Aziraphale’s armor of serene understanding began to crack; a flicker of fear lit his eyes. “This is how I am, Crowley. If that’s not-”

“No, I didn’t mean-”

“This is how I love you. I can’t give you anything else.”

A flood of understanding swept Crowley, no, not just understanding, but _agreement_ , this was _Aziraphale_ , for goodness’ sake, and of _course_ he didn’t want anything else, not when they already had more than he’d ever thought himself capable of wanting. No more secrets existed between them. This was as perfect as Crowley could define, he saw that now. 

“Your love, your way of loving me, is the only love I want. I’m sorry for ever thinking otherwise,” Crowley assured him. The word _love_ sounded so strange in his voice, like a curse. But the way it transformed Aziraphale (the tears welling in his eyes, the smile he couldn’t control, the squeeze of their hands together) showed it was the furthest thing from it.

“Don’t you ever apologize to me, Crowley.” The rain stopped, and the blinking lights hanging from the tree shined less brightly as the sun tentatively came out from the lightening clouds. They shared a hug that felt more intimate than Crowley could've hoped for.

* * *

After it all, Crowley could say he’d changed. He listened better, he was more patient, he cherished every word Aziraphale said, he… well, all of the changes _were_ related to Aziraphale, but that was all he’d wanted to change, anyway. He felt like he had absorbed some of what he admired so much in his friend.

Most of all, though, he knew that they would never go back to normal, in the sense that _normal_ was what he was before all of this; his searching soul 15and toiling mind had found the strongest of balms. 

15\. Aziraphale had successfully convinced him that he had one.

The “wedding” present, therefore, was not a thank-you gift nor an obligation, but a suggestion of how Crowley wanted their relationship16 to proceed. It was wrapped in plain black paper 17 , no bow, no ribbon, just a notecard taped to the top claiming it was for _“Angel”_ in a careful, casual scrawl. He took a deep breath and left his flat; it was just before dinnertime, overcast, and the clouds looked weepy, so he hugged it tight against his chest, hoping the paper would hold up against the onset of a mild drizzle.

16\. He was no longer uncomfortable calling what they had a relationship. He was a demon, for badness’ sake. He could define words however he wanted.

17\. Crowley had the professionals do this. He was bollocks at wrapping.

Despite the hour, it was dim enough outside to see the candles flickering in the bookshop. Crowley knocked on the door and positioned himself leaning against the old pillars, gift in hand like it wasn’t the most important worldly possession in his life right now.

Aziraphale opened the door, eyes slightly wide like he’d been spooked by the sound and was expecting the worst. Crowley couldn’t totally blame him - he never knocked anymore.

Aziraphale’s face quickly relaxed. “Oh, it’s you. Come in,” he urged, looking suspicious of the darkness in Crowley’s sly grin that mirrored the clouds above his head. “What did you knock for, anyway?”

Crowley swept through the front door, taking the seat Aziraphale had obviously just vacated at the ancient oak desk. There was a steaming mug next to a neatly-bookmarked almanac. Crowley took a sip. 

“So you knock, take my chair, and steal my cocoa,” Aziraphale commented, seeming delighted by the turn of events. “What’s gotten into you?”

Crowley swung his snakeskin boots up to rest on the desk, testing the angel’s patience, and smiled when Aziraphale said nothing and instead sat contentedly in the squishy leather chair that was usually Crowley’s. He looked expectant.

“I’ve got something for you,” Crowley said, and tossed the package to Aziraphale.

Contrary to his distinctly unathletic form, Aziraphale caught it gracefully. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” He smirked impishly.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Just open it.”

Aziraphale gave him a look of thinly-veiled excitement and cleanly removed the paper without ripping it. Upon seeing the contents, his expression blossomed into delight, and then back to the same suspicion he’d had at the rainclouds.

Because inside the package was a brand-new, pure-white laptop. One with the unmistakable indented Apple logo. You know, with the bite taken out of it.

Aziraphale burst out laughing.

“D’you like it?” Crowley couldn’t help the grin forming on his face.

“What was wrong with my other one?” Aziraphale argued, glancing towards the back of the shop where “the other one” sat. Behind his mask of composure, Crowley could see the angel was currently imagining himself lugging the heavy desktop that looked like it had survived a nuclear blast out behind the building and hitting it several times with a sledgehammer. “Thank you. Really. I love it.”

“You love _me_ , you mean.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, hushed, glancing quickly down. “I think that’s obvious by now.”

Crowley’s mouth twisted sinuously. “Took both of us a while to get it quite right,” he teased. “Tell you what. I… sort of miss my little hobby. The website, I mean. I think I want to start it back up, and I can’t do it alone. Too many clients, you know.” He paused. “And Mr. Z… I think you’d be the perfect partner in crime.”

“Fixing up sham marriages?” Aziraphale asked, appalled.

Crowley pretended to think deeply. “Or real ones.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, running his fingers over the sharp edge of the laptop’s box. “How will I know which is which?”

“You won’t. You’ll have to have faith,” Crowley answered, trying not to laugh.

“Faith. Hm.” He gave Crowley a knowing look. “Alright.”

“Excellent. AJ and Z’s Happily Ever After Services. We’ll fix up the website and everything. New and improved.”

“I do like the sound of that. Everyone needs a hobby outside of work.” 

Crowley felt as if a fireplace had been lit inside him on a snowy day. “Come here. I’ll help you set it up.”

Aziraphale pulled up the chair, and Crowley scooted his to the side so that they could share the desk. They got to work booting up the laptop, which was easy, and spent several hours teaching Aziraphale the basics of HTML, which was disastrous, in part because Aziraphale twice typed a URL wrong and ended up in a place he _really_ didn’t want to be. Crowley’s patience held. He didn’t mind if it took Aziraphale a year to learn a simple link tag. 

Every time the demon glanced over while Aziraphale was deep in concentration, he found that he was, finally, really _here_ . Truly _here_ , not wanting to be anywhere else, nor a nebulous idea of away, nor gone existentially. And if _here_ no longer meant the bookshop, or his flat, or London at all, that was fine, because home actually _had_ changed. What he’d wanted all along - what he’d been selling to the Happily Ever After Services clients, (what _everyone_ wanted, right?) was that very permanence. Him and Aziraphale were practically immortal, anyway. 

A lot could change in the next six-thousand years. At least now Crowley knew that there was one thing that wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks SO MUCH again to my amazing collaborators and to the Good Omens Big Band 2019 mods, who did a wonderful job organizing this event. Links are below if you'd like to say hi!
> 
> [cosmya](https://cosmya.tumblr.com)  
> [crowleysnek](https://twitter.com/crowleysnek)  
> [squashbee](https://squashbee.tumblr.com)  
> [theinkwell33](https://splitting-infinities.tumblr.com)


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